When a loud girl asked if I was a Giants fan, I anticipated some bullshit. Me: shrug, noncommittal snort. Her: “You can have my tickets for tonight’s game, club level!” She dropped two tickets through the open car window and sauntered away. Each one had a face value of $55.

I don’t much care about baseball. Loud, colorful, free things are OK though. And beer in big cups. I plotted out my evening.

6-7: Yoga class.

7-7:30: Drive home.

7:30-8: Bike to AT&T Stadium.

8-?: Brewskies.

All that intensive planning, and wouldn’t you know it? Yoga sapped my (admittedly lukewarm) enthusiasm for the game. I just wanted a quiet dinner with the girlfriend.

I tried giving my tickets to yoga’s dudeliest student, a thinly bearded Indian guy with a medallion on a chain. The dude said he didn’t like baseball. Then he followed me down five (!) flights of stairs, explaining he had a report to finish but “otherwise would love to go.”

Sure you would, pal.

I went inside Pancho Villa, where I spied a smooth-faced guy and gal in Giants gear. They were mid-burrito.